No Match for the Man
by Mother-of-Monsters
Summary: My Submission for the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange on Tumblr - dedicated to nicolesketches. Developed from the prompt: "I'd love a Johnlock story developed from "Scandal in Belgravia" possibly with Irene invovled as well? Any rating." Emotions are a minefield, navigable only with the help of a trusty pole star. Rated M for smut at the end...just 'cause.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Hello everyone! This is my contribution to the Johnlock gift challenge on Tumblr. My Prompt was from the lovely **nicolesketches**: "I'd love a Johnlock story developed from "Scandal in Belgravia" possibly with Irene invovled as well? Any rating." Here you are, my dear, and I hope you like it._

_Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC Sherlock, unlike the incomparable Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, who are two of the most talented people in the world._

**Chapter 1**

Ms Irene Adler was, without a doubt, the most intriguing woman Sherlock Holmes had ever had the misfortune to be on the wrong side of. Perhaps, if she had been less of an unapologetic vixen, he might actually have enjoyed her company. Unfortunately, he discovered that, clever as she seemed, she was basically no more than a sexually predacious spider, which was about as fascinating to Sherlock as picking up dry cleaning.

For example, it had given him a bit of pause when Mycroft brought him to the morgue. He was sad, for a moment, until Molly pulled back the sheet, and he saw that the body displayed before him was decidely _not_ Ms Adler. Had she thought he, of all people, would be fooled by a body double? A terrible sense of ennui enveloped him at that revelation, which Mycroft seemed to believe was an expression of grief.

It was actually more an expression of disappointment. How predictable - things get too hot, and instead of changing the game, making it more challenging, she scarpered. Boring.

As he relished his first few drags of suffocating cigarette smoke in months, watching the emotional display of a pair of parents come to identify their dead child, he actually felt a little ashamed of himself. Here he was, cashing in on his brother's misguided attempt at succor, when these people were going through so much emotional trauma it was manifesting itself in physical pain.

When he rhetorically questioned his brother, he hadn't expected Mycroft to speak the same, hated words their father had spat at them every day of their lives. He saw every day how much damage caring could do; his flatmate was a daily physical reminder of the twisting anguish brought on by the supposedly marvelous sentiment of 'love'. Mycroft's nostalgic pronouncement just deepened the suffocating depression that had begun to sink into his mind and bones.

Instead of taking a cab, he opted to walk home, borrowing the chill of winter to sharpen his thoughts and drive out the sentiment swirling around within him. He forcibly focused his mind on the task at hand, namely, Ms Adler's phone. Obviously, there was something more on it then just pictures, and the information was valuable enough that Ms Adler deemed it necessesary to fake her death in order to save herself. It had to have something to do with those Americans that had been at her town home, of that at least he was certain. What it was they sought, he was not so sure of, and that annoyed him.

The frustration of **not knowing** was a constant bane to Sherlock's orderly way of thinking. He had cultivated his innate ability to deduce everything using the input of all his senses, as well as linear logic, in order to avoid **not knowing**_. _It drove him to solve every puzzle he could get his teeth into, even the simplest ones. Well, that wasn't entirely true.

There was one puzzle that didn't bother him, even though its constant presence should have driven him mad with irritation. His inability to solve it did not dishearten him in the least, a fact which both baffled and comforted him at the same time. That puzzle's name was John Watson.

Since their first meeting, John had managed to be both completely surprising and utterly ordinary at the same time. How someone so disgustingly normal managed to knock an all-noticing genius like Sherlock for a loop nearly every time he opened his mouth was astonishing. It was as if Fate herself had designed Dr John H Watson specifically to be Sherlock's own personal enigma, social guide, and enabler all in one.

_John mentally shrugged off Jeanette's parting words and kindly asked Mrs Hudson to start her search in the kitchen. Forgoing the rest of the flat, he slipped into the detective's surprisingly clean bedroom, and tried to focus on the task at hand, rather than his surprising lack of emotional turmoil over his inability to maintain a romantic relationship. Seriously, shouldn't that be worrying?_

_ He took prodigious care not to mess up Sherlock's sock index and the color code in the closet, but otherwise did not hide the fact that a search had been made. The detective probably already knew the place would be searched, so why bother covering it up and be berated for doing a bad job of it? It wasn't like Sherlock really trusted him anyway._

_ Finding nothing wasn't as good a feeling as it should have been. He would have no opportunity to search again once the detective returned home. If Sherlock decided he wanted to purchase something on the way home, John would never find it. Rubbing his hands down his cheeks, the doctor leaned back against the wall, mentally listing the things he would have to watch out for._

_ He concluded his search with a thorough check of the bathroom and slipped back into the living room. Mrs Hudson replaced the last of the couch cushions and bid him goodnight and good luck with a sad sort of smile. John thanked her quietly and sank into his armchair, then lifted his book off the table beside him, just to give his hands something to worry at._

_ All things considered, it hadn't exactly been a bad Christmas, even considering the sad end of Ms Adler. Not that John was the kind of man to wish ill on anyone, but truly, she had brought it upon herself, hadn't she? Besides, she had treated Sherlock rather foully and deliberately tricked John out of the room in order to hurt Sherlock. Flipping a page a little more violently than necessary, John tried to ignore the knot of protectiveness that settled in his gut as the sound of Sherlock's steps echoed up the stairs._

Returning home to find that the whole flat had been searched, and John apparently put on babysitter duty - wait, make that **dumped** and put on babysitter duty - Sherlock snapped a snarky reply and retreated to his room. Since John did not reply, he assumed that his solitude would be uninterrupted. He wasn't sure if he was happy or not when he was correct.

As he refused to sleep on principle, Sherlock waited until an hour after John had retired upstairs before venturing out into the living room. The cozy fire had been left lit, and the kettle in the kitchen had been left on low with a mug and teabag sitting before it. A small piece of folded paper had been left on his violin case, with his name in John's oddly neat handwriting.

Within, it read: **Don't leave the kettle on all night, and please try not to play too violently. Not even Christmas cheer would save us if the neighbors start complaining again. - John**

Sherlock allowed the barest hint of a smile to grace his lips as he gently placed the note on his desk, feeling a bit of warmth settle in his chest. Pulling his beloved instrument from its velvet-lined case, he brought it to his shoulder and smoothed the horsehair bow along the strings until the soft strains of 'Silent Night' shivered in the air. It was the least that could be done to thank John for his misplaced kindness.

That time of night, with only the stars and streetlights for company, was Sherlock's favorite. Being alone protected him, allowed him to hear every blessed note of music wrung from the wooden instrument within his pale hands. It allowed his thoughts the freedom to roil about in his incomprable mind until they could settle again in an orderly fashion, just as the notes plucked and pulled from the strings continued on to their finish. This was a time for composing.

A creak from the mattress in the bedroom upstairs reminded him that he wasn't precisely alone, as John was somewhere above him, settling into the land of slumber. But the doctor would not return downstairs unless summoned, something the detective had learned early on in their strange partnership. John just seemed to know when Sherlock needed space, a fact which should have bothered the detective to no end, but didn't.

It wasn't in Sherlock's nature to feel comfortable being seen as anything but enigmatic, ethereal even. Somehow, though, being understood by John was neither unpalatable, nor unwelcome. It was almost a relief to find someone who, though he might find some aspects of the detective's character grating, never seemed to actively try to change anything more than unpoliteness. John was the first person, in a very long time, to address the man at the metaphorical heart of the detective, and to find in that man someone worthy of befriending.

Such thoughts caused a revelation that brought the hand hovering a pen over a half-blank music sheet to a halt. The revelation was thus – before John Watson, Sherlock was, God help him,** lonely**. It was such a striking realization, Sherlock nearly dropped his violin in astonishment. How could he, a Holmes, be **lonely**?

He shook himself of the shock as the light of dawn tinged the cloudy horizon silver. Soon, John's footsteps would creak down the old staircase into the kitchen and ruin the silence that had ensconced the flat. Sherlock once again placed bow to string and tried to rebuild the invisible wall of untouchability around himself, hoping that would deter the doctor from speaking at all.

It seemed to work, for when John drowsily stumbled into the kitchen, he only sighed in exasperation, instead of chiding the detective for leaving the kettle on all night again. After a few moments of running water and metal clinking against ceramic, a steaming mug of tea appeared on the desk near Sherlock's music stand. A newspaper rustled from somewhere in the vicinity of John's chair, but not a word was spoken.

Comfortable silence, broken only by the depressing vibrato of the violin strings, the scratch of a pen, and the sound of newsprint folding, settled around the room like a giant, sleepy cat. Sherlock was distressed to find it so soothing, so like all good Holmes men he took the **feeling **and shoved it to the rear of his mind, focusing his thoughts about how to open Ms Adler's phone instead. The feeling rattled against the door he'd locked it behind when he took a sip of the tea John had prepared exactly to his liking.

It was going to be a long holiday.


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: On with the story! By the way, you can find **nicolesketches **at nicolesketches (.tumblr .com) and me at thebibliophilicdraconic (.tumblr .com) - sans the parentheses and spaces of course._

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1_

**Chapter 2**

A few days later, just when he despaired of Ms Adler ever reappearing, a car that was not one of Mycroft's absconded with his flatmate. As he slipped up the back ways into the building, he took in a deep breath of cleansing London air as the thrill of **The ****Game** shot up his spine. It appeared she was more intriguing than previously believed.

John's softly serious plea that Ms Adler reveal to the detective that she still lived twisted something inside Sherlock, allowing that feeling of **loneliness** to seep through again. He had no doubt that John would definitely reveal her presence to him, without any provacation on his part, simply because John **cared**. If it would alleviate Sherlock's depression, the detective had no doubt John would do it. John would do anything for him.

Stealthily listening to the conversation unfolding a few yards away, Sherlock focused more on John's reactions to Ms Adler's manipulations than the words themselves. The doctor's incredulity at her having the audacity to flirt with Sherlock was entertaining, at least. Something about the way John said, "I don't know, maybe," in response to her asking if she was special tugged at a place in Sherlock's chest suspiciously near his physical heart.

John's mild outburst against his perceived homosexuality was predictable, as was the odd twinge it caused in Sherlock's chest. The revelation that Ms Adler was a lesbian came as a bit of a shock, but then again, women were decidedly not his area. Female sexuality was far more fluid than that of his own gender, which made it much harder to predict if there weren't a considerable number of other factors at play. What really surprised him was the silence after she said, "Look at us both."

Sherlock slid out of the building when his text chime alerted them both to his presence. He had to move quickly, or John would probably follow him. Facing John now would be a decidedly bad idea, as Sherlock wasn't entirely sure where his mind was on that front. Setting his body on autopilot, Sherlock took a cab back home to the flat, turning his mind inwards in order to suss out the reason for the strange ache that had sprung up in his chest.

It hit him as he exited the cab on the corner and moved toward the flat. Irene Adler thought he thought she was special. True, he did love to have the last word - John was right about that - but he had never answered any of her messages. Even John seemed to think that made her special, which gave her even more incentive to believe it herself. In actuality, he hadn't answered because he didn't care.

Answering her messages, flirting with her, would serve no purpose other than to indulge her playful, 'bad girl' disposition. Besides, he was rubbish at flirting anyway, so why bother doing it at all? There was also the fact that she had drugged him, humiliated him even, which was no way to ingratiate one's self with anyone, let alone a man as self-possessed and proud as himself. The only thing further he wanted from Irene Adler was the code to her stupid phone, and since that was never the message he received, he never bothered answering.

Pausing at the door, he stared at the knocker for half a minute as he contemplated the messy tangle of **feelings **which had sprung up during the entire overheard conversation. Three things were obvious: 1) John considered Irene special because of Sherlock's atypical reaction to her, 2) Irene had **feelings** about him that could possibly work in his favor if he played his cards right, and 3) John's silence after Irene's sexual revelation was either a realization of his own, or an inability to think of a comeback. Sherlock's reactions to these things, emotion-wise, were disbelief mixed with confusion, contemplative satisfaction, and the treacherous spark of hope, in that order.

Seeing the signs of a breaking-and-entering on the doorjamb pulled the detective from his revelry. Evidence piled up in his mind as he noted the signs of a struggle on the stairwell and the floor. John was not at home, of course, which left only Mrs Hudson as a possible hostage. His blood began to boil within his skin as he ascended the steps and the soft sound of muffled sobs reached his ears.

_While Sherlock disappeared into the shadows of London, John pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose and let out an irritated sigh. Irene smirked over her shoulder at him. __"Well, Doctor Watson," she began, and the smugness in the dominatrix's voice sounded so much like Mycroft, John almost wanted to vomit._

_ "Whatever you plan on saying, **Ms **Adler, keep it to your bloody self." John growled, executing possibly the sharpest turn he'd ever made since his last time on a parade ground. _

_ The doctor stalked out of the building, anger flushing his cheeks as that feeling of protectiveness uncoiled and recoiled in his gut. Irene Adler had no right to that same smugness that Mycroft had, like he knew Sherlock better than anyone else. John did not have any such beliefs; he simply accepted the detective's eccentricities and tried not to make any assumptions beyond it._

_ Sherlock was a mystery unto himself, and John enjoyed every moment of surprise. No one had the right to think they had unravelled the mystery themselves, without either Sherlock's consent or his own personal revelations. Though John held no hope of ever finding himself deemed worthy of understanding the detective, he reveled in the illusion of closeness afforded to him by their living situation. _

_ John had returned from war a man defeated, adrift from the shores of purpose. Sherlock had moored him once again, with ropes spun of murder and adrenaline. For returning his life to him, John would go through several kinds of hell, mental and physical, to protect Sherlock. If that meant pitting himself against the likes of Irene Adler, then so be it._

_ Rotating his shoulders and neck to loosen them, John made a bee-line for the exit of the power station. He found Ms Adler's accomplice waiting at the door, and smirked wryly at her. "Sorry I accused you of being one of Mycroft's assistants."_

_ She looked up from her mobile screen and gave him an answering smirk, "I've been called worse things."_

_ "Still, I behaved terribly towards you in the car. Is there any way I could make it up to you?"_

_ "Perhaps," she gave a furtive glance up at the power station, then motioned for him to get into the car. She waited until they were well on their way back towards Baker Street before speaking again, "I know Mr Holmes is still in possession of Miss Adler's phone."_

_ "Am I to assume you appear on it in some way?" John leaned back into the seat. "And you would like to see it erased?"_

_ "No and yes." The woman crossed her legs and leaned closer, right into his personal space. A hint of floral perfume reached his nostrils. "My employer appears on the phone, in a rather imaginative and artistic array of photographs. In addition, he has also exposed a number of documents to her eyes, which we believe have also been downloaded to her smartphone. He is in a tenuous position at the moment, and if Mr Mycroft Holmes were to ever see his involvement with Miss Adler, would probably be fired." _

_ "You'd like me to manipulate Sherlock into erasing both before Mycroft has a chance to see them?"_

_ "I would certainly make it worth your while," she stroked a perfecty manicured finger along the top of his thigh._

_ Lovely as she was, John wouldn't have taken her up on the offer if her insides were made of gold. Sherlock would have been proud of the way he artificially showed interest - licking his lips and casting a weighted gaze over her body. He felt the car slide to a stop, and locked eyes with her. He said nothing as he slid out onto the pavement, only allowing his irritation to show once safely out of the vehicle. _

_Even if he had the power to manipulate Sherlock Holmes, John would have rather died than exercise it for something as petty as political gain._


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Still going! Still for **nicolesketches**. Hope you're enjoying it!_

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1._

**Chapter 3**

There were very few people in the world who meant something to Sherlock, so hurting one of them was tantamount to waving a red flag at an enraged bull. Mrs Hudson was like a mother to him, far more than his own mother had been, and she had been there for him during a dark time, even through her own pain. That someone, an American spook no less, had the gall to so much as discomfort her turned his vision red.

Tossing the man out the window was a delight, though he hadn't really meant to damage the trash bins. He practically skipped down the stairs, his mind already forming his vindictive action into an experiment in the physics of a falling living body. A smirk of morbid pleasure twisted his mouth, but it froze on his face as he met John in the foyer.

The doctor looked his flatmate up and down, then scratched the side of his nose with his thumb. He sniffed once, pursed his lips, and said softly, "We're going to owe Mrs Hudson for those bins." John then turned away and threw back over his shoulder, "By the by, drop him feet first next time? Wouldn't want to cause an international incident by killing him, would we?"

Sherlock's smirk turned into a full-blown grin as he darted out of the flat to drag the man back inside again. Not many people could surprise him like John Watson could surprise him. It added an extra level of glee to his task.

Later on, he waited patiently while Lestrade's minions combed the flat and took statements. He had to hide his pleased smile as John snapped at a few of the technicians when they became a bit overzealous in their search. It always gave him a bit of a thrill whenever John came to his defense.

Mycroft had always been a shadow in the background, seeing over any potential threats with clandestine meetings, perceived omniscience, and a smarmy attitude. In theory it was a good procedure, and many threats ran with their tails between their legs. Those threats that he could not out-class or intimidate, he had silently removed or he cleaned up after.

John would never out-class a threat, except perhaps with his marksmanship. When it came to intimidation, however, John could give Mycroft a run for his money. There were no side-lines or spies for Dr Watson, there was only the weight of a gun in hand and looking the danger directly in the eye. The doctor laid his life, his mind, his entire well-being on the line every time he protected Sherlock.

In the whole of the detective's life, there had never been anyone like John. Nothing had ever been as steadfast, as loyal, as constantly surprising as the doctor. Everything in his life was transient, even The Work. Everything, it seemed, except John.

When the last of the sirens faded into the distance, and they had both seen Mrs Hudson safely to bed, Sherlock and John retired to their flat. As the strains of 'Auld Lang Syne' drifted through the air, he could feel John's eyes watching him. It wasn't distracting, per se, nor was it specifically uncomfortable, but Sherlock still wasn't used to having an audience, especially for his musical performances.

Turning his mind off the soft warmth of contentment pooling in his belly, Sherlock zeroed his mind back onto the task at hand – namely Ms Adler's camera phone. It was obvious that soon she would have to come to him for help, if only because he held her safety net in the palm of his hand. But what would he do when she finally appeared?

The gears in his mind wound back to her conversation with John in the warehouse. Something she said clicked into place, and he murmured softly, "Does that make me special?"

"Hmm?"

"She asked you if my not answering her made her special."

John made a grunting noise, then said, "She did, yes. She also mentioned the fact that she was a lesbian."

Sherlock spun around slowly, taking in the tableau the doctor presented. John's hands were fisted on his knees, knuckles whitened by the pressure, and the muscle of his jaw twitched as he clenched it. Something in the line of the doctor's broad shoulders revealed that the man wasn't so much uncomfortable as actively annoyed with the conversation.

"Correct, and regardless of that fact, she still finds me attractive." Smirking at the way John took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, Sherlock replaced his violin in its case and settled into his chair, pulling his long legs up to wrap his arms around them. "I might be able to use it against her."

"No, Sherlock," the force with which John spoke surprised the detective into looking him in the eye. "Whatever you're thinking, just, no."

Cocking his head a bit, Sherlock tried to hide the shiver caused by John's tone of voice. "Have you no faith in me, John? I'm just going to do the same sort of thing I use to get body parts out of Molly."

"Oh I have faith in you, Sherlock," John shook his head slightly and wearily climbed to his feet. "I have plenty of faith in you. But Irene Adler is not Molly, not by a long shot." The doctor ambled over to the sofa and tugged the afghan Mrs Hudson had given them for Christmas off the back of it. "You're a very skilled actor, and God knows you're a great manipulator, but compared to Irene Adler?" He clicked his tongue against his teeth as he returned from the couch and slung the woolen blanket around the detective's thin frame. As he finished his impromptu speech, he tucked the material into itself, encasing Sherlock into a warm cocoon, "**Ms.** Adler has perfected your skill into her own personal art form. I hate to say it, Sherlock, but she'll eat you alive."

When John had started speaking, Sherlock had first narrowed his eyes in frustration. He much preferred John extolling his abilities to being chastised by him. A moment of confusion crinkled his brow when John picked up the afghan, and it was replaced with a modicum of panic when he realized John's intention. Darting his eyes to the skull on the mantle, the detective hoped the doctor would assume the flush that crept into his cheeks was from the sudden warmth brought on by the blanket, rather than their sudden, unexpected closeness.

"What," Sherlock swallowed hastily, trying to drive away the odd note of huskiness that had invaded his voice, "what are you implying John? That I am incapable of manipulating a manipulator? I did very well against that cabby, as I recall, and he was rather good." He paused, allowing his lips to twitch into a small smile, "Well, until you shot him, of course."

"Oh yes, Sherlock, you did wonderfully against the cabby." John rolled his eyes and shook his head, a fond smile quirking his lips. "Tell me, have you forgotten the part where you almost swallowed that pill? Pull both my legs, why don't you? Then at least I could be taller."

Frowning, Sherlock pulled himself to his feet and looked down at the shorter man before him. He chose to turn his frustration at his own lack of control into anger. Poking a finger into John's chest, he snarled, "What exactly are you trying to say, John? Out with it!"

John's strong chin squared mulishly, "You may know a lot of things, and you may be able to tell everything about a person's life from a glance at their bloody thumbs, but there is one thing you just don't get, Sherlock."

"And what, pray tell, is that, Doctor?" The detective loomed over John as if to intimidate him into backing down.

"Emotions, you daft git." John settled himself into an at-ease position, leaning back just a bit on his heels. "Sentiment. All those annoying little **feelings** that make us all so human. That damn cabby played you like you play the violin. Irene will chew you up and spit you back out." The doctor's voice dropped half an octave, "I will not watch someone do that to you again."

So many things ran through Sherlock's mind - how dare John presume to point out his flaws, God damn the man for being all protective again and making him feel all awkward inside, trying to intimidate a soldier who had been to war continued to be a fruitless endeavor, were the doctor's eyes blue or grey - he had to back up a step out of John's personal space to collect himself. His mind finally settled on, "I do learn from my mistakes, John." The blanket around his shoulders slipped as he planted his hands on his hips and fixed a meaningful glare on his friend, "Now that you were so kind to lay out my shortcomings, I will remember to be on my guard. Trust me, John, I'll have Irene in the palm of my hand by this time next week."

John sighed softly, his shoulders slumping, and Sherlock knew he would go along anything the detective planned. "Fine, Sherlock, whatever you say," the doctor reached up and re-wrapped the afghan tighter around his friend's shoulders. His thumb involuntarily caressed the detective's throat as he smoothed out a wrinkle over the detective's shoulder. "After all, you're always right, aren't you?"

Sherlock was unable to think of a response as his mind had screeched to a halt, replaced by the lingering warmth of John's accidental touch. The doctor sighed again, almost sadly, and turned towards the stairs. "Good night, Sherlock."

_Leaving the detective behind, John mounted the stairs to his bedroom only to pause on the landing. Looking down at his hand on the railing, he pondered the phantom feeling of smooth, warm skin that clung to the nerves of his thumb. If they hadn't just been talking about emotions, John might not have even noticed it, nor the odd churning in his stomach brought on by the detective's unhealthy habit of putting himself in the path of destruction. Closing his door quietly, John wondered briefly if he was becoming sick. Listing his symptoms silently to himself, he dressed for bed._

_He froze with his shirt halfway on as the diagnosis slammed into his brain like a 2-ton baby grand piano. Irene Adler was right, he had **feelings** for Sherlock Holmes, and if they continued on in the vein they had already carved out, John was in grave danger. He was no stranger to peril, he had faced down terrorists and psychopaths after all, and come out of it with nothing but a case of mild shock. The thought of falling in love with his best friend, his **male** best friend, terrified him more than Afghani bullets ever had._


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: Still for nicolesketches! I swear, I'm not dragging out the tension on purpose! Silly boys!_

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1_

**Chapter 4**

Finding Irene Adler sleeping peacefully in his bed, wearing one of his winter lounging shirts, wasn't entirely unwelcome, but Sherlock did silently make a note to burn his sheets later on. Waking her wasn't terribly hard, especially when John started making coffee. John made coffee capable of waking the dead, a testament to his old army days when it was needed to help a soldier remain alert for days on end with little sleep.

Her little trick with using a false number on his replica of her smartphone annoyed him, but not as much as her approaches into his personal space. His only incentive for solving the mystery of the email so quickly was so he could move away from her as soon as possible without looking like that was his intention. It helped having John there, keeping him on track by the sheer fact of his presence. Otherwise, he might have gotten stuck in the strange competition of manipulation and intimidation with Irene.

Irene had quite a way with words, but instead of being stimulating, her admiration gave him a sour taste in his mouth. Impressing her with his own cleverness, where her own methods had failed, was laughably simple, but it didn't hold the warmth that showing off to John did. That was why he addressed most of his findings to John, rather than Ms Adler. John stimulated his thought process, while all she did was utter empty promises. Now he just had to figure out what sort of operation 'Bond Air' was supposed to be.

_John watched fondly as Sherlock lifted his violin and settled into his armchair. As the detective started murmuring to himself, the doctor gently closed his laptop. A soft tap to his shoulder called his attention back to the Woman who had invaded their flat._

_ "Does this often, does he?" _

_ Nodding, John dragged himself up from the desk, "You get used to it after a while. Tea?"_

_ "That would be lovely, Doctor, thank you," Irene smiled winningly. She followed him into the kitchen and settled herself in front of Sherlock's microscope. "So, you get used to him talking to himself?"_

_From the other room, Sherlock's voice drifted over, "John, it's obviously got nothing to do with James Bond."_

_Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, John leaned against the counter across from Irene and answered her with a flippant smirk, saying, "Among other things."_

_"Shouldn't you answer him?"_

_"No." Turning back to the kettle, the doctor carefully prepared three cups of tea and then handed one over to Irene. "He wasn't actually talking to me. When he's like this I'm more of a sounding board than an active participant." She followed him back inside the living room as he brought the second mug of tea in and placed it within the detective's reach. "Mind you, it's still really irritating, especially if I have no idea what he's talking about."_

_He settled back down at the desk, and they both quietly watched as Sherlock plucked the same pair of notes over and over again, occasionally mumbling or speaking John's name before a fact. After a few minutes, John observed out of the corner of his eye that Irene was looking equal parts fascinated and concerned. Hiding a smirk behind a sip of tea, he tried to decide if throwing the afghan over the man's shoulders in a clearly possessive way would a) get her to sod the bloody hell off, or b) bother Sherlock's concentration._

_Irene shifted uncomfortably for a moment, then placed her cup on John's end table. "He does this all the time? Seriously?"_

_"It's not nearly as frustrating as when he makes decisions when I'm not here and then gets angry at me when I have no idea what he's on about." At her amused smirk, he added, "Don't even get me started on the random body parts that seem to magically appear in our fridge every other week."_

_"Why put up with him then?" Irene purred. "You don't strike me as the sort of man to indulge madness. Why do you stay? Besides the obvious fact that you are," the sly, knowing smile that quirked her expressive mouth made bile rise in his throat, "shall we say, enamored of him?"  
_

_"The rent's good." He took another sip of his tea at her huff of amusement. "Also Sherlock's occasionally entertaining beyond his crime solving abilities. It's almost like owning a cat, really. I make sure he's fed, watered, and clean up after his messes, and sometimes he deigns to grace me with his presence. He's also easily distracted by laser pointers."_

_A startled giggle burst from her lips, and Irene turned her head away to control her laughter. When she finally composed herself, she turned back again and whispered, "You know, doctor, even as a disguise is always, in some way, a self portrait, so to can be said of a comparison like that."_

_"So, what?" John just barely managed to keep his face drawn in a puzzled way as he continued speaking, "Are you saying I think Sherlock is a giant pussy?"_

_Irene choked quietly on the mouthful of tea she had been in the process of swallowing. Smiling, the doctor rose to aide her but was stopped as she raised a hand and rallied herself back under composure. The smile she let slip just before the wall went back up was genuine, "You know, Doctor Watson, I think I'm beginning to see why he keeps you around."_

_"Good. When you figure it all out, please share with the rest of the class?" John smiled wryly at her._

_Somewhere in the kitchen John's phone beeped insistently. Rising with a soft apology, he made his way to the kitchen and rifled through the mess on the table until he located his mobile beneath a small pile of photographs of bees. Finding some texts from Lestrade, he almost went back into the living room to attempt to rouse the consulting detective from his revelry. The first two mentioned a string of bank robberies along with a request for Sherlock's expertise. The next one after that held a disregard and the message that the same robbers where involved in a crime in progress._

_It was the last that got his attention: **3 hostages inside, officers down. EMTs unable to help. Could use some1 w/ combat & med xperience?**** - GL**_

_Barely hesitating, John answered: **On my way. 1****5 mins. - JW**_

_Snatching his keys from the counter, the doctor sprinted up the stairs to his bedroom and pulled out his medical field kit and his shoes. Thundering his way back down the stairs, he leaned on the arm of the sofa to put his shoes on. While he struggled to tie the slightly frayed laces of his trainers, he addressed Irene in a sharp voice, "Sorry, Ms Adler, I have to dash out for a bit. By the by, Sherlock might be disoriented time-wise when he snaps out of it, thinking he was just talking to me and the like. Just tell him to text me when he comes round?"_

_Irene's barely there affirmation followed him out the door._


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: Still for **nicolesketches!** It just keeps going!_

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1_

**Chapter 5**

_Bullets peppered the concrete as John slid ghost-like along the barrier of panda cars lining the street to drop to his knees beside Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. His shorter stature made him nearly invisible to the shooters still entrenched within the bank. Reaching out, he snagged an injured officer beneath the arms and dragged him out of the small empty space he had fallen in. _

"_Damned AK's!" Sergeant Sally Donovan cursed angrily as another wave of projectiles shattered the window above her._

_Lestrade snarled and shook shards from his silver hair, "How much bloody ammo do they have?"_

"_M16's," John said calmly as he yanked the tourniquet in his fingers tight around the wounded officer's arm. _

"_What's that, Doctor?" Sally leaned around Lestrade's back to look at the doctor as he worked._

"_Their guns. They're M16s, smaller and lighter than an AK." John arched his body over the fallen officer as another window burst, protecting the man's face from the falling glass. "One of the boys a few cars over said the robbers went inside with a backpack each?"_

"_And?" The Inspector leaned back on his heels as he shared an incredulous look with his Sergeant._

_John carefully straightened up and continued to pack and bind the bullet wound under his hands. His unbelievably calm tone never wavered, "Those guns have a 30-round cartridge capacity, and they've been shooting off at least a full charge every fifteen minutes since you got here an hour and a half ago. I'd guess they're nearly out of ammo, but they probably have handguns for backup so they can get away."_

_Sally and Greg shared another incredulous glance before Sally blurted out, "How the hell do you figure that?"_

_The doctor made a noise so reminiscent of Sherlock's 'you're all idiots' snort that they nearly fell over. As John patted his patient and shooed the man back into action, he leaned his back against the car and fixed the Inspector with a no-nonsense stare. One side of his mouth quirked up at the looks on the faces of his two-person audience._

"_It's a common terrorist tactic. Line the bottom of a pack with enough ammo cartridges to keep the authorities at bay, hole up inside a building for a while with some hostages, fire at will while the packs are filled to capacity, snag some hostages to use as human shields, and make as clean a getaway as you can." He shrugged, "To be fair, compared to the terrorists, these two are amateurs. There's no getaway vehicle within running distance, they completely forgot to secure the rear of the building, and they only have one hostage."_

"_How, the bloody fuck, do you know any of this, John?" Sally's voice was at least 2 octaves higher than normal with incredulity._

_Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder, a stupid grin plastered on his face, "John here's an Army doctor, Donovan. You don't think Sherlock Holmes would tolerate an ordinary GP for an assistant, do you?"_

_Another burst of gunfire sounded, and the police radios scattered about crackled with static as the SWAT team made their entry through the rear of the bank. The faintest echoes of angry officers demanding surrender bounced out into the now quiet street. When the radios crackled again, sounding the 'all-clear' Lestrade, John, and Donovan dragged themselves out from behind their shelter and into the open road._

"_I'm going to assume," Lestrade began to say, and then all hell broke loose again._

_One of the robbers burst suddenly out of the front door of the bank, pistol drawn, and fired randomly into the street. Two officers went down as Lestrade and Donovan dropped to one knee each and returned fire. John grunted as a bullet grazed his left bicep, and he caught up the fallen weapon of a nearby downed officer._

_Grimacing as another wild shot grazed his lower leg, John fluidly targeted the fleeing criminal and fired. The robber took the shot clean through his shoulder, screaming out in pain as he fell to the pavement. Dropping the weapon, John rushed forward to roll over one of the downed officers and apply pressure to his bleeding chest._

"_Lestrade," John's voice was still as cool as an autumn breeze, "you might want to get those EMTs over here. Now."_

As humiliating as her almost-victory had been, Sherlock could admit to feeling a modicum of admiration for her cleverness. Everything that had happened had been planned by her, and her alone, with Moriarty only having ideas in regards to her continued protection. If he had been just a little less observant of her physical reactions, and not just **the game**, then more would have been lost than just the carefully laid plan of a pair of nations. Making his way back through the airport, Sherlock pulled his favorite coat a little tighter around his frame and set his body on autopilot.

He ran through the last few hours again in his mind, replaying key points to see where he could have done better. Was there anything he could have said or done, seen through faster? Where had he gone wrong? What had he done right? Where was John?

Shaking his head of that last thought, Sherlock set his jaw in anger. John had left the flat, left him alone with that viperess, and not even had the decency to leave a note. The doctor was supposed to stay put and keep an eye on Irene, keep her away from him, not disappear! Not that he could blame the man for swanning off, really, when the only thing in the flat besides himself was a scheming seductress. John preferred the company of honest people with trustworthy hearts, not selfish power players.

Now, when the tale was reiterated to the doctor it would have to be carefully edited, or John would know that he had been right about Irene outclassing the detective in regards to manipulation. Not that John would do any more than say 'I told you so', unlike Mycroft, who would never let him live this little incident down. That was one of his favorite things about John; the doctor openly admired him even when he screwed up.

Catching a taxi, instead of being brought back to the flat by Mycroft's flunkies, Sherlock curled in on himself and fiddled with the edges of his coat sleeves. As the scenario in the office replayed yet again, he flinched inwardly at his acidic words. He had meant for them to hurt her, and they obviously had, but he hadn't meant to hurt himself as well. Mycroft would have taken notice of his referencing John during a speech about the folly of **sentiment **and **love**. He was in for an earful sometime in the very near future.

Knocking his head against the window, Sherlock took a few deep breaths and let them out slowly. Getting involved with sentiment had never been good for him; he needed someone who understood it to explain it in plain English. Mycroft was too much their father's son to attempt it, and Mummy could wax so poetically about it that it confused him even more. Irene Adler had now tossed another spanner in the works, showing him that **emotions** could be just as much of a weapon as anything else. How the hell was he to prepare against it next time if he had no idea what it meant?

Only one person popped up in his mind whenever he delved into the land of **feelings** - John Watson. The doctor was good with such things, being a rather ordinary human being in that respect. However, the thought of discussing such things with his flatmate brought up other things that he knew, even with his limited knowledge of the subject, were 'a bit not good', and could possibly damage their friendship irreparably.

Still, in the end, John was the best sounding board he had for such things. Had the man not predicted, after all, that Irene was the better master because of her understanding of **sentiment** and **emotion**? Before he could talk himself out of it, he resolved to consult John more often on the subject of **feelings**, and to actually listen to any advice rendered on that subject. Time to think up a proposition for just such an endeavor that would entice John to help out.

Turning his phone back on in his pocket, a loud beep alerted him to a text, and Sherlock tugged it out to check the message: **Barts ASAP. John needs help home. - GL**

Sherlock stared at the message and **panic** slammed his throat closed. All of his careful preparations slipped from his mind at the thought that John had been possibly damaged in some way flooded his mind. "Saint Bart's Hospital now!" He barked at the driver then dialed Lestrade's number. He didn't even give the man time to greet him before snapping, "What happened?"

"Robbery in progress at the First National? John said he left a message for you to text him."

"Stop prevaricating, you idiot, and tell me what happened!" The detective used **anger** to usurp the **fear** that had gripped him, infusing it in his voice.**  
**

Lestrade was shocked into silence for a moment, but finally he answered, "Bullet grazed John's shoulder and leg. I mean, God Almighty, Sherlock, I knew the man was in the Army, but ho-ly hell that was something to see! The Yard doesn't even have snipers that can shoot like him!"

"Yes, John is a crack shot. You should see him in hand-to-hand combat sometime. It's quite stimulating." Even though his tone was sarcastic, it couldn't really cover the undertone of fondness that leaked in beneath it. "Is he alright?"

"Yeah, he's fine. Just getting patched up now. Don't know how the Army let go of a man like him."

"The Army did not 'let him go' they shipped him home an invalid because he took a terrorist bullet in the shoulder. I'll be there in seven minutes if this idiot driver will go faster than 10 kilometers an hour!" He hung up on the Inspector and lurched towards the front of the car.


	6. Chapter 6

_AN: Still going, __**nicolesketches**__! Hope you're enjoying it! I had a huge problem fighting to save this chapter because, for some reason, it kept refreshing the page and deleting everything I had just written, even though I saved it religiously. Obviously, I prevailed in the end._

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1._

**Chapter 6**

_Lestrade sighed deeply as Sally Donovan and another officer wrestled Officer Emma-Lynne Wilcox back down the hall. Glancing over at the stoic man beside him, Greg studied the rather impressive, bright red hand-print that had blossomed on John's cheek. The officer's sobs petered into silence as she was dragged bodily out of the A&E doors and into the cool night._

"_God, I'm sorry about that, John," the Inspector let out a heavy sigh. _

"_Don't worry about it, Greg," the doctor's voice was subdued. "Everybody handles grief differently. I just wish I could have convinced Lisa not to just give up like that."_

_Humming in agreement, Lestrade took hold of John's unwounded shoulder and gently steered the doctor back into the small operating room. As John hopped up onto the hospital bed, shedding his blood-stained jumper, the Inspector said, "Still, grief doesn't give Wilcox the right to haul off and slap you like that."_

_John shrugged, then grimaced as pain up and down his arm. "You might want to keep Officer Wilcox on a suicide watch."_

"_You're a psychologist now, eh?"_

_A sad sort of smile played on John's lips, "You don't need to be a psychologist to realize how devastated the woman was. Just think of how you'd feel if someone you loved just gave up on life." The doctor rasped his hands down his slightly stubbled cheeks, "I know I wouldn't want to keep on."_

"_Got someone specific in mind there, John?" Lestrade gave his friend a teasing grin, trying to lighten the mood, "A six-foot someone, maybe?"_

"_Sod off," John's voice was weary, and tinged with a small note of nervousness. He wasn't even going to attempt to delve into how thinking about Sherlock dying made him feel. "I was thinking more along the lines of my sister, actually."_

_The Inspector sobered from his buoyed mood, "Fallen off the wagon again, has she?"_

_John did not answer and instead seemed to shrink in on himself. He was so tired of this day, of death and life. Officer Lisa Wilcox had not been the only casualty of the day, and both had been in the same ambulance as he. Sometimes, John thought to himself, being a doctor was the worst profession in the world, because no matter how 'very good' you might be you still couldn't save everyone._

_Jamming the heels of his hands into his eyes, John groaned as that old feeling of depressing uselessness started to sink into his bones. A nurse took that moment to enter the room, and Lestrade took his leave, patting him on the shoulder. Before the Inspector disappeared, John asked, "Text Sherlock for me, would you? He never contacted me after I left."_

"_Already done, mate."_

Sherlock burst into the waiting room in a flurry of barely controlled frustration. Catching sight of Lestrade in the far corner of the A&E waiting room, he nearly flew across the floor until he was looming over the Inspector with his hands at his hips. "Where is John? What happened?"

"In room number four. He got a pair of grazes is all. Completely superficial."

"Then why the devil did you send me a text message designed to give me heart palpitations?" Sherlock snapped.

At the shocked expression that appeared on the Inspector's face, Sherlock replayed what he had just said and cursed himself silently. He really had not meant to say something like that, especially not to Lestrade, who wasn't as stupid as some of the other officers of Scotland Yard. Proving the detective right, the Inspector simply shook off his momentary surprise and did not comment.

"We, uh, lost two officers who were coming into the hospital on the same ambulance as John. One of them was too severely injured for anyone to help him, but the other just," Greg sighed gustily and cuffed a hand through his hair. "Look, suffice to say, John's not in the best state."

Eyes narrowing, the detective raked his gaze over the Inspector and then crossed his arms across his chest, "You're neglecting to tell me something."

Lestrade made a few awkward noises then conceded, "Just, alright, yes, but you should really talk to John about it. Room number four."

"Don't repeat yourself, Lestrade, it makes you sound even more stupid than normal," Sherlock snapped as he turned away with a flourish.

Stalking his way around the people packed tightly in the waiting room, the detective moved onward, searching out the room which temporarily housed his flatmate. Finally he located the right hallway and strode confidently to the right room. What he found when he finally arrived made his stomach feel like it was filled with ice.

It was easy to forget that John wasn't as tall and steady as an oak tree. Looking at him now, hunched over like an old man and dressed in ill-fitting scrubs, John seemed frighteningly small. The hardy warrior and had been overthrown by the gentle healer, who was obviously being slowly crushed beneath the burden of his own human frailty. Doctor Watson had been reminded several times that day that he was not a God, able to stall the inexorable march of Death, but a man without true power.

When the door opened to reveal the detective, John lifted his heavy head and allowed a friendly smile, the kind that Sherlock secretly thought was all for him, to grace his familiar features. "Hello," the doctor said softly, his voice sounding hoarse and old.

Instead of calling attention to the doctor's obvious mental and physical exhaustion, Sherlock quirked his mouth into a playful smirk, "Since when do you go on adventures without me, John? I thought we were supposed to be friends."

"You know me, Sherlock. Someone says danger," John dropped to his feet, shrugging.

Sherlock hummed approvingly, his smirk softening involuntarily into a genuine little smile, "And there you are."

In the harsher light of the hallway, Sherlock stalled as he picked up on the outline of a hand-print on John's cheek. He grabbed John's injured arm gently and tilted his head until John rolled his eyes and leaned far enough back to give the detective a full view. Keeping his voice low, the doctor said, "Officer Wilcox took offense at my inability to save her wife in the ambulance."

Caressing the mark with gentle fingertips, the detective took note of the size and shape of the mark, using the hue of it to gauge the force required to make it. His deductive gaze also took note of the heat of John's skin, the way the doctor's cheek muscle twitched lightly at the touch, and the way the man's dark eyes widened slightly in surprise. A tingle of electricity wormed its way up Sherlock's arm, and lingered even after he removed his hand.

Letting out the breaths neither man realized they were holding, Sherlock took hold of John's injured elbow and maneuvered him slowly towards the exit. "Let's get you home, John."


	7. Chapter 7

_AN: Moving right along...almost to the end..._

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1_

**Chapter 7**

_Blood stained his hands all the way up past his wrists. Slick fingers fought for purchase around the combat-issued tourniquet, making it nearly impossible to properly tighten. Somewhere behind him, another person screamed out the last of their life as a bullet sailed through flesh and bone._

_Searing pain rocketed through his brain as his shoulder was blasted apart by a bullet. Refusing to give up, he tried to crawl to cover, but was stopped by a foot slamming down on his wound. Beneath him, his compatriot breathed out one last breath into the foreign sand._

_Above him, a young, angry voice shouted in some form of dialect he had not yet been able to understand. Grunting in pain, he tried to explain in another, similar tongue that he was little more than a medic, of no hostage use at all. The foot crashed down again and again, grating bone shards into each other and the surrounding tissues in his joint._

_As a gun cocked loudly above his head, he cried out in pain._

Dressed only in his flannel trousers, Sherlock raced up the steps to John's room in the wake of a horrible scream. He had never heard John make such a frightening noise, and the sound had twisted something in Sherlock's chest. Bursting through the door and flicking on the light, the detective stopped short, staring at the sight before him in disbelief.

Seated on the floor, John had lifted his face from his hands as his flatmate nearly tripped over him. The doctor's whole body trembled as he heaved great gulps of air into his lungs. A single tear had escaped his eye, and traveled the expanse of his cheek, leaving behind a faint trail of salt.

As if approaching a wild animal, Sherlock cautiously dropped to his knees, a few feet away from John's outspread legs. This close he could see that the dark blue cotton shirt John wore was absolutely saturated with sweat, and his friend's pulse was so fast he could see the skin of the man's throat twitching. Slowly, he shuffled forward on his knees until he was between his friend's feet.

In a quiet murmur, the detective offered, "Just a dream, John. Nothing more. It's alright. You're safe now." Repeating the words several times, Sherlock watched as the doctor's trembling slowly subsided.

John took in a deep breath, and leaned back against his nightstand, letting the deep voice of his companion wash over him. After he had calmed enough to regain control of his tongue, he offered in a rough voice, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to bother you."

"It's fine, John." Keeping his voice soft and low, Sherlock gingerly patted the doctor's knees. "Don't apologize." The silence that followed was tense, and his stomach was doing that uncomfortable squirmy thing it had done when he'd seen John wearing Moriarty's semtex vest, so the detective cleared his throat and ventured, "Am I supposed to do something now?"

"What?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Should I offer you tea? You usually offer me tea. Or a blanket." His expression turned quizzical, "Do you need a blanket, John? I have several orange ones. And possibly a pink. I could get you the afghan from downstairs?"

The doctor stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Why the hell would I need a blanket?"

"So no then? What about the tea?" Sherlock popped to his feet like a jack sprung from its box. "I know you prefer Earl Grey, but I think the chamomile you force me to consume after long cases might be a better alternative." He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop himself.

"What in God's name are you talking about?" John looked genuinely confused.

Making a few passes of his hands in the air, Sherlock fought to compose himself. Seeing John distressed, when the man was usually so ridiculously calm even a saint might have been irritated by it, had knocked Sherlock's usually pristine world off it's axis. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to go completely still.

No one had ever upset him as much as John did, not even Irene when she had almost beaten him. Had that been so short a time ago? His resolution in the cab on the way to the hospital resurfaced in his mind, and he weighed the pros and cons of just asking John to explain to him what to do. It felt strange to actually gather his courage - he'd never been so frightened of anything before – but gather it he did.

"This isn't my area, John." Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at his bewildered flatmate. "I don't know what to do."

Realization dawned on John's face, and was quickly replaced by a soft, fond smile. "Of course you don't." Hauling himself to his feet and then sitting on the bed and propping his back against the headboard, John scooted closer to the wall and patted the spot beside him. "Just, sit here and talk to me, yeah? Tell me what happened with Irene? I'm sorry I left you alone with her, by the way."

Sherlock made a slight growling noise in his throat at the mention of The Woman. Flopping himself on his back, he looked up at John and placed his hands in his customary thinking position beneath his chin. After a long moment of silence, he grimaced and said, "You were right."

As predicted, John did not gloat, although he did smirk and jokingly suggested, "Would you mind handing me my phone so I can record this moment for posterity?"

Fixing a good, hard glare up at his friend, Sherlock spat, "This is not a joking matter John."

Chastised, John apologized, then ventured, "So what happened?"

"Oh, the usual. She tried to convince me that she was just playing a game, even though all the evidence pointed to the fact that she was legitimately attracted to me." The detective's lips twitched at the memory of Irene's face when he had told her he'd taken her pulse. John made an encouraging noise, and Sherlock looked up to see the doctor's eyes drifting upwards towards his hair. "She tried to seduce me, but Mrs Hudson came upstairs. There was a point where I actually thought..."

As John's brows had lowered in consideration, the doctor shifted until he could reach out with his left hand. When warm fingers gently teased at the ebony curls, Sherlock fell utterly still and silent. Finally, John stroked his hand through the detective's hair, just above his forehead, and the sensation sent heat straight to Sherlock's groin. He didn't mean for his eyes to flutter closed, so he opened them immediately after John's fingers were removed.

"Sorry, there was a piece of string in your hair." John showed off the off-white piece of cotton in his hands before flicking it to the floor. "It was distracting me. You were saying?"

"I don't know what to do again."


	8. Chapter 8

_AN: ONWARD!_

_Disclaimer: See Chapter_ _1_

**Chapter 8**

"Sherlock, can you please try to remember that I'm neither inside your head nor a psychic? What the hell are you on about?"

Sighing in exasperation, Sherlock flapped his expressive hands in the air above his stomach, "You touched me and I didn't know what to do. You're supposed to explain it."

John's confusion was really starting to get on the detective's nerves, "Sherlock, you've lost me again. Is this one of those times where you made a decision without me and expect me to just know?"

"You were right about The Woman. Obviously, I am more susceptible to emotional manipulation than previously believed. Since you regularly suffer through it, you are supposed to explain it to me."

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, John muttered, "Oh God." Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, the doctor settled himself more comfortably, until he could look directly down into Sherlock's eyes. "How the hell am I supposed to know what you, of all people, are feeling?"

Frowning, Sherlock asked, "Isn't it the same for everyone?"

Shoving his forehead into his hand, John massaged his temples with a groan. "No, Sherlock, it's not the same for everyone. Can we get back on the task at hand, please? Where's the part that I was right come in?"

With an indifferent shrug, Sherlock uncrossed and recrossed his ankles before supplying, "Well, she tried to seduce me, but unfortunately I wasn't as stimulated by her as she believed. However, The Woman showed all the typical physiological signs of attraction in regards to myself."

"Seriously, this sounds a lot more like you winning then her." The fingers of John's left hand tickled the line of his bicep.

Remaining quiet for a long moment, Sherlock tried to figure out of John even knew he was tracing patterns on the detective's arm. "That tickles."

Blushing, John snatched his hand away, "Sorry."

Fitting the image of John with his cheeks flushed into his Mind Palace, Sherlock brushed the moment off and continued, "Mycroft had one of his minions abduct me and took me to a hangar. I'll come back to that later so you can put it on your blog and piss off my brother."

"You're getting off track again, 'Lock," John yawned suddenly, which gave the detective a moment to wonder if his name had been shortened as a sign of affection, or just because the man had needed to yawn.

Unable to fight the sympathetic response, Sherlock yawned as well. "Bollocks," he cursed when he had finished. John chuckled fondly, a sound which prompted Sherlock to blurt out, "Both your laugh and the way you shortened my name caused my chest to feel light inside and my cardiac rhythm has increased."

John jerked back so fast, the detective worried he might have pulled a stitch. "Bloody hell, Sherlock!"

"You did tell me to inform you. Explain."

"Christ," the doctor's voice had risen at least three octaves. Clearing his throat and swallowing hard, John rallied himself back together and answered just as bluntly, "It sounds like you were pleased by what I said, and the way you made me laugh. It's a common feeling when someone you are attracted to..."

The doctor slapped his hand over his mouth and stared at the open doorway with eyes that had gone as wide as Mycroft's favorite doughnut plate. He trembled slightly, then pulled in a desperate breath of air before lowering his hand to his lap and staring down at his fingers. Sherlock's stomach clenched as the man continued to remain frozen.

"Fuck," John whispered. Placing his face in his hands once more, he groaned. "Fuck!"

in

"John?" Sherlock tentatively reached up and slid along the hard line of John's bicep. The doctor nearly jumped out of his skin. "You're making me nervous. My stomach hurts."

Making a noise like a strangled cat, John leaped out of the bed and disappeared down the stairs. The detective gave chase, but John was already in his jacket and zipping out the door. At the sound of the front door slamming shut, Sherlock's head snapped up as if he'd been slapped.

Shakily the detective settled himself on the sofa and returned to his thinking pose. Somewhere in their conversation, John had either lost his mind, or come to an unwelcome realization. Determined to understand, Sherlock bent his entire will to replaying every aspect of their interaction since John had woken from his dream.

_Somewhere in Sussex, a phone rang loudly on an antique wooden nightstand. It's owner scrubbed a hand across her sleepy blue eyes and then flailed until the offending mobile could be brought close enough to see the caller ID. Suddenly far more awake than she has been in weeks, the woman disengaged her screenlock and simply said, "Johnny?"_

"_What the fuck do I do, Harry?"_

"_It's two o'clock in the bloody morning! What the hell are you playing at?" Harry Watson leaned back against her cushioned headboard. "I'm not going to have to bail your sorry arse out of jail, am I?"_

"_Oh God. Jesus. I can't even, I mean, fuck! Harry?" _

_There were very few things in life that made her baby brother blather like an idiot, and all of them could be filed under 'emotional upheaval'. "Johnny, what's the matter? What's happened? You're scaring me!"_

_"Scaring you? Harry, I'm fucking scaring me!"_

_Using the calming voice that Mrs Watson had passed on to both her offspring, Harry soothed, "It's alright, Johnny. I'm here. Just tell me what's wrong?"_

_The sound of heavy breathing drifted over the line, and Harry could tell her brother was desperately clawing for control. After a few more moments of silence, John answered, "I think I'm in trouble, Harry."_

"_What kind of trouble?"_

_There was a long pause, and then in a frightened voice John blurted, "Jackie Lisbon's slumber party trouble?"_

_Mentioning the event that she had told him solidified her sexual label to 'lesbian' brought Harry's free hand to her mouth. "Johnny! What happened?"_

_As if she had opened a floodgate, John started to rapidly reiterate the last few hours since his waking from a PTSD-fueled nightmare. In the darkness of her flat, Harry's eyes widened until they hurt. Pacing footsteps set up an underlying beat as John finished his tirade, "And then when I started to explain it to him it was like my whole brain snapped into place, and I realized I had been feeling the exact same thing ever since I met the bloody git, and I didn't know what the fuck to do!"_

"_Oh, Johnny!" Harry felt a few tears slip down her cheeks at her brother's distress. _

"_What do I do, Harry?" John's voice sounded years younger than it was. "What am I going to do?"_

_When her brother had returned from the war a broken man, Harry had been horrified. Seeing the war hero, the great healer, so defeated she could actually see him contemplating eating his gun, had driven her back into the waiting arms of alcohol. Then, just when she despaired of ever getting back her fun-loving, energetic little brother, Sherlock Holmes had been thrust into his life. John was better now, getting into trouble right alongside the insane detective, than he had ever been._

"_You, John Hamish Watson," Harry growled, using their mother's spine-straightening trick of speaking their full name for motivation, "are going to march your ex-Army arse back to that flat, apologize for running off like a bloody coward, and give that man a kiss that blows every circuit in his genius mind."_


	9. Chapter 9

_AN: MOAR!_

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1_

**Chapter 9**

"_Harriet Jaqueline Watson, you are completely bonkers if you think for even a second," John was cut off as his sister's voice snapped out at him._

"_That bloody bastard is the best thing that ever happened to you, and if you don't march your skinny butt back to that flat and ravish him to hell, you are going to regret it."_

"_But I'm not gay!"_

"_God, Johnny, weren't you the one who told off Gran at my wedding? Told her that it was love, and not sex, that mattered?" The sound of Harry lifting a bottle up and sipping from it drifted over the line. _

_John stammered loudly as he paced the width of the entrance to Regent's Park. "That was totally different, and you know it!"_

"_No it isn't!" Harry slammed the bottle down on her night table. "Man, woman, undefinable, it doesn't matter as long as you love them and they love you! You told me that, John! Do you still believe that?"_

"_Yes, but," getting cut off in the middle of his sentences was getting old._

"_No buts!" There was a loud pause and John could nearly hear her smirking, "Well, I suppose there could be butts."_

"_Oh, my God, Harry, I swear I'm going to murder you."_

"_You're not thinking of making that your anniversary gift, are you?"_

_Sputtering again, John flailed his arms like a madman before putting the phone back to his ear again and sighing, "Yes, Harry, I still believe that."_

"_Good. Now answer me this – do you love him?"_

_John closed his eyes and carefully but quickly scrolled through the most recent parts of his life, ever since he had first met his mad friend. Hearing Sherlock's voice in his head, encouraging him to apply the detective's method, the doctor stacked up all the emotional and physical evidence he could gather and webbed it all together until if formed a single cohesive answer. Opening his eyes, John stared down the road back towards his flat and sighed._

"_Oh God, yes."_

"_Go get 'em, baby brother."_

Sherlock glared at the ceiling as if it had caused him a personal offense. It had only taken him a few moments to conclude that John had run off because the doctor had found the same markers of attraction in himself that the detective displayed. He wanted to slap the man silly for having a sexual crisis while they had been discussing a case.

The front door of the flat opened and closed quietly, and John's familiar step reverberated up the stairs. When the doctor's face appeared in the doorway, Sherlock pretended to ignore him. Sheepishly, John shuffled over to the sofa and sat on the coffee table. The detective refused to turn his eyes on principle and clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering in the chill of the flat.

"How are you not freezing?"

"Mind over matter."

"You're trying to stop your teeth from chattering, aren't you?"

Huffing indignantly, Sherlock rose up into a sitting position and took in the sight before him. John's hair had been mussed by the light wind and running his hand through it. The jacket slipped off one shoulder without the bulk of a jumper beneath it. Sniffing unhappily, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

With a loud sigh, equal parts frustration and affection, John shucked his jacket and leaned up to snag the afghan and wrap it around the detective's naked torso. This time, instead of just tucking the corner of one end over Sherlock's shoulder, John cupped the detective's cheek in one palm. A calloused thumb caressed the sharp cheekbone beneath it, and that heavy, warm tingle settled in Sherlock's gut again.

Breathing slowly and steadily, John pulled the detective into his arms, holding him close. Placing the barest hint of a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, almost exactly where Irene Adler had done so barely a day before, the doctor whispered, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock had to keep from swallowing as his stomach churned with **fear**, "Sorry for what?"

"Running away," John tightened his arms around the detective. "It was wrong of me to leave you like that, especially without explaining myself."

"Yes, well," Sherlock nearly purred as the doctor's body infused him with warmth, chasing away that terrible gut-churning sensation. "You're an idiot."

John's affectionate chuckle brought back that light sensation in his chest, and Sherlock couldn't help chuckling as well. Freeing himself from the confines of the blanket, the detective wrapped his arms securely around his flatmate, allowing a sigh of contentment to leave his lips as John's slightly rough hands came in contact with his bare skin. "That light feeling is back, John."

A snort sounded near Sherlock's ear he could feel the doctor smile against his cheek. "New flatmate rule, okay? No describing how your body is reacting to me in front of other people?"

"Why?"

"Just no, Sherlock. Not good."

"Fine." Disengaging his arms from John's shoulders, Sherlock slid one hand up to grasp John's wrist. He smiled at the rapid pulse hammering away there. "Just like The Woman."

After letting out an embarrassing 'meep', Sherlock suddenly found himself flat on his back on the sofa, with an Army doctor straddling his lap and holding both of his hands by the wrists beside his head. John hovered inches above his mouth, eyes as hard as unpolished steel. Something in Sherlock's guts writhed in dark delight as John rumbled, "Never compare me to that harpy again."

Sherlock Holmes had been kissed by numerous people in his life during quests for narcotics, research and experimental purposes, and occasionally for pleasure. His partners had been at various levels of experience, as well as control. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a virgin, or a horny teenager. All of this became irrelevant the instant he concluded that John was about to kiss him, and kiss him good.

Nipping gently at the detective's plump lower lip, John teased Sherlock's mouth with a glide of tongue along the seam of his lips. Brushing their mouths together softly, the doctor caressed his lips several times before sealing them together. Sucking on the detective's lower lip, John coaxed Sherlock's cupid's bow open and dipped his tongue inside, and taunted the man beneath him with it.

As the detective pushed his own tongue upward, John sucked at it greedily. Sherlock struggled against the strong grip on his wrists and whimpered softly when the doctor pulled away. John's gaze was hungry, and it set Sherlock's entire nervous system on fire as it raked over him.

John sat up slowly, dragging his hands over the pale expanse of Sherlock's forearms. Settling his weight over the detective's hips, he smiled peacefully down at the beautiful man below him. Bending forward, John pressed soft pecks of his lips against Sherlock's forehead, nose, and cheek.

Nuzzling his nose against the detective's pulse point, John sighed contentedly as Sherlock's arms wrapped up around his torso. "I think we've had enough excitement for one day, hmm?"

Sherlock's affirmative hum vibrated through the doctor. His voice was throaty and weighted,"Let's go back to bed then?"

"My pleasure, 'Lock."


	10. Chapter 10

_AN: Um...smut ahoy?_

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1_

**Chapter 10**

They retired to John's room because, being at the top of the house, it was warmer. Sherlock added the afghan to the pile of blankets on the bed, then burrowed under the covers. John chuckled at this child-like antic, the sound filling the air as the light turned out. The mattress dipped as John wriggled under the covers, and warm, strong arms pulled him close.

Opening his mouth immediately in response to a nip by the doctor's teeth, Sherlock sighed softly as a warm, slick tongue tangled with his own. John cupped his cheek in one hand, and the other tangled into the detective's ebony curls. The grip at the back of his skull tightened, and John maneuvered them until he was once more straddling the detective's hips.

John stretched out full length over Sherlock's body, and the detective moaned softly against his lips. A growl rolled out of the doctor's throat, and he nipped playfully at the man's jaw. Rough-skinned, gently hands caressed the long column of pale throat exposed when Sherlock leaned his head back for air. Planting a soft kiss to the pounding pulse, John ran his tongue from the juncture of the detective's collar bone all the way back up to the willing cupid's bow mouth.

Panting at the sensation, the detective slid his hands down the strong back of his partner, and tugged suggestively at the hem of the soft shirt covering it. John rocked back up into a sitting position, knees to either side of Sherlock's hip bones, and pulled the shirt off without a hint of self-consciousness. At the sight of his friend spread out beneath him, John's hips jerked slightly, and the sensation caused Sherlock to throw his head back and groan.

"Holy hell," John breathed reverently, one hand gliding up the practically glowing skin of the detective's torso from hip to shoulder. Repeating the action with his other hand, veering only to tease at a hardened nipple. Sherlock arched into the caresses, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. "God almighty, you are the most," John licked his lips and decided to kiss the man beneath him instead of finishing his sentence.

Nearly purring into John's insatiable mouth, Sherlock slid his delicate fingers over every inch of the doctor's chest and back. He traced the edges of the bullet wound in John's shoulder, and discovered the faint line of an appendectomy scar on the doctor's slightly pudgy stomach. Slinging a leg over the man's hip, Sherlock pulled the warm body above him even closer.

With every stroke of John's hands and lips against his skin, Sherlock felt another little bit of his analytical mind shut down. Normally, that would have been frightening, feeling his higher faculties slip away into dormancy behind the visceral siren song of animal instinct. But, there beneath the gentle press of John's worshipful hands, he felt no such fear. John had never hurt him, and even in the relatively short amount of time they had known each other, the army doctor had never let him drown beneath the weight of his own mind.

As their hips slotted together, John grunted hungrily into Sherlock's moaning mouth. The difference between their heights must have been all leg, as they fit against each other like perfect puzzle pieces. No longer capable of words, Sherlock teased a hand along the inner edge of John's flannel pants, trying to convey his need for more contact. In response, John ran a hand up the thigh wrapped over his hip, then inserted his hands into the rear of Sherlock's trousers.

The detective let out an open-mouthed grunt as John gripped his rear and ground their hips together. He raked his fingers up and down John's sturdy back until he could slide them into John's flannels to grab hold of the doctor's rear. The throaty noise of approval that John made against his lips traveled straight to Sherlock's groin. Making an eager noise, Sherlock pushed against the doctor's shoulders earnestly.

With the swift efficiency born of Army training, John divested them both of their trousers and pants in seconds. He kissed the inside of the detective's knees and thighs, then nuzzled his nose against the hard plane of Sherlock's stomach. The chest beneath his lips and tongue heaved wantonly, vibrating with every pleased noise the detective made. Both of Sherlock's long legs crossed over John's back as the doctor scored his teeth on the sharp prominence of the detective's collar bone.

Sherlock wrapped him up in a full-bodied embrace as they rocked their hips together. Sparks of color rocketed behind his eyes as they undulated, rocking their arousals in a counter rhythm. Furnace hot, John's hands and mouth seared every skin cell he touched to ecstatic life. Pleasure burned through Sherlock's veins, building slowly to a maddening crescendo.

As the detective teetered on the edge of euphoria, John pressed his cheek against Sherlock's and whispered encouragingly, "Come on, you gorgeous thing. Let go. Just for me, love. All for me."

In the end, it wasn't the words or even the friction that drove Sherlock over the edge of pleasure's precipice. It had nothing to do with the susurrus of skin-on-skin, or the heat, or the weight of another body pressing down against him. John's tone, full of hopeful awe and **love**, was all it took to drive him to rapture.

Letting out a strangled 'Oh!' of bliss, Sherlock's body shuddered with its release. His muscles quivered uncontrollably, and as his limbs clamped down on the body still moving against him, his nails punctured ten perfect half-moons into the doctor's shoulders. Murmuring John's name against the doctor's panting lips, Sherlock urged his new lover onward to completion.

Giving in to the delirium of gratification, John suppressed a sob of joy by giving his partner a bruising kiss. Losing a battle with his overworked limbs, the doctor shakily relaxed his weight over the body beneath him, groaning in satiation. Sherlock somehow managed to wrap his uncooperative arms around the chest of his companion, and pressed an unsteady kiss to the doctor's temple, smiling against the skin there as John made a pleased sound.

After a few moments dedicated to rediscovering control of their limbs, John started to rise up onto his arms, only to find himself suddenly re-tangled in an almost desperate embrace. "No," Sherlock mumbled in a raw voice.

Bringing his hands up to pet through the detective's sweat-dampened curls, John sweetly brushed his lips against his new lover's forehead to shush the man. "Just grabbing my shirt to clean us off. Not going anywhere, 'Lock."

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock flopped his arms wide open onto the bed. Sighing in an exaggerated fashion, he huffed out, "Fine."

Once their combined stickiness was gently cleaned away, Sherlock flopped over onto his stomach and wriggled down into the warm blankets. He stole John's single pillow and clenched it to himself. John chuckled, but since he had expected the detective to be just as entitled to John's sleepwear as he was about his laptop, the doctor didn't bother getting angry. Instead, he simply used the detective's body as his pillow, centering his ear over the steady heartbeat of the man beneath him.

Sighing in bone-deep contentment, Sherlock felt his entire body relax as John's solid weight settled over him. The doctor hummed in agreement, and pressed a lingering kiss to the pale skin beneath his cheek. "Night, 'Lock," the doctor murmured sleepily.

"Good night," Sherlock purred back. Just before they both embraced sleep, the detective whispered barely audibly, "No more nightmares, my John."


	11. Epilogue

_AN: And here's to the end. Once again, for the lovely nicolesketches. I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks to everyone for reading!_

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1_

**Epilogue**

_Irene smiled as she handed over a cup of tea to her impromptu and unexpected savior. As she settled into her single armchair, she watched Sherlock Holmes cast his mercurial gaze about at the newly decorated interior of her brand new safe house. The detective had set her up in a studio apartment in the 'wilds' of northern Minnesota in America, and she had made very good use of her paltry budget. It was cozy, instead of stately, but still suited her very well._

"_Thank you again, Mr Holmes, for everything you've done for me." Reaching out with her leg, she stroked her foot along the inside of his calf. "If there is anything that I can," she stopped speaking as the detective thunked his mug down ont the end table._

"_I wish you to know," he began, steepling his hands before his chin, "that after I leave this place, you will cease to exist in my mind. I will delete you, Ms Adler, just as I have deleted all things irrelevant to me." He stood without further preamble, and pulled on his coat. Pausing at the door, he added, "I take my leave of you, Ms Adler, and though I do wish you well, I do not wish you to ever contact me again."_

_As the only consulting detective in the world disappeared into the night, Irene Adler, once The Woman, and now no one, barely swallowed her last sip of tea. Tears dripped slowly down her rounded cheeks, as the only man that had ever bested her walked out of her life. How would she live now?_

Exhausted, Sherlock trudged up the stairs into his flat, and threw his coat up on the nearest hook. He had barely slept or eaten for two weeks, and been forced to spend an inordinate amount of time with a woman who had mortified him in front of his brother, and nearly caused an incident of multi-national proportions. For once in his life, he wanted nothing more than to stuff himself with curry and pass out for a month.

While he contemplated the pros and cons of sleeping on the sofa, heavy footsteps moved from the kitchen into the living room. John Watson, dressed in his black and white striped jumper, black flannel pants and socks, strode into view. Sherlock waited a full half-second before the doctor glanced at him and flashed him a broad, thrilled smile.

"Welcome home, 'Lock." The doctor wrapped his detective up in a warm embrace, "You poor thing, you look done in."

Returning the hug, Sherlock leaned the bulk of his weight onto his partner's sturdy frame. "I'm hungry and I haven't had a decent cup of tea in ages."

Chuckling, John steered them over to the sofa, depositing the detective with a chaste press of lips. "I'll call for dinner and start up the kettle, shall I? Indian or Thai?"

"Curry puffs?"

"Thai it is." With a last stroke of his fingers through the detective's hair, John turned back toward the kitchen, snatching up his mobile on the way.

Tugging their afghan off the back of the sofa, Sherlock kicked off his shoes and cocooned himself in the warm fabric. Closing his eyes, he set about putting aside the mental files he would need to get rid of before he could begin deleting The Woman from his brain. John being his usual, caring, domestic self was a lovely sort of white noise that allowed him to finish organizing in half the time he would normally take. When he came back to himself, John was bringing in a full plate of potato curry puffs, and a steaming cup of Sherlock's favorite Darjeeling tea.

Halfway through the food, a wave of weariness made the detective reel slightly, and John immediately took away the plate. "Come on, Sherlock, let's get you comfy and in bed before you keel over on the floor."

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock relinquished control and allowed John to maneuver him into the bathroom. Reveling in the warm shower, he heard the door of the room open twice more while he washed away the grime of his travels. When he finally opened the shower curtain, his skin wrinkled from the moisture, he found a fluffy towel and his comfiest pajamas waiting for him. Bless Doctor Watson and his mother-hen tendencies; the man had thrown both the towel and his clothes in the dryer to warm them.

He leaned against the door of his bedroom and took in the sight awaiting him. John had put his softest sheets, fresh from the laundry, onto the bed, and added a light blanket to stave off the chill that lingered in the spring nights. The man himself was just placing a glass of water on the bedside table, and he looked up with a gentle smile as he noticed he was not alone.

"Alright, you, in you get."

Acquiescing silently, Sherlock crawled into bed and settled on his belly, slipping his arms beneath the pillow. John tugged the sheet and blanket up and tucked it around the detective's slim form, then gently tousled the ebony curls and pressed a sweet kiss to one sharp cheekbone. Standing, John made his way to the wall and clicked off the lights.

When the doctor's footsteps failed to return to the bedside, Sherlock lifted himself up and asked, "Where do you think you are going?" When there was no answer forthcoming, he spoke in a deep tone that brooked no argument, "Get back here and into my bed this instant."

A few seconds of silence followed, and then John began to laugh. "I don't know why the bloody hell I put up with you," regardless of his words, the doctor insinuated himself into the covers and splayed himself over the detective's back.

Without having to be asked, John's hands began to firmly massage out all the knots in his partner's shoulders. Loosing himself in the sensation, Sherlock let his mind drift as all the tension of his trip oozed out of his muscles. He could hear John begin to murmur softly, setting up that calming layer of background noise that washed out all others until there was just him and his doctor, alone in the world.

He had never thought, for even a moment, that this would have been possible with The Woman. Her entire persona was based on artifice; designed to play a game that wasn't **The Game**. He would have spent every moment competing with her, and when his wilder, darker moods she would be next to useless except, perhaps, in encouraging him towards destruction.

John, kind and gentle, ever the carer, kept him sane. There was no competition with John, and no need to be anything other than himself. John gave in where others argued, stayed when others fled, and charged in when others hesitated. When the black moods came upon him, John cajoled and entertained until either the mood passed or **The Work** drove it away. Even when he was at his worst, John was at his best.

"She was no match, you know," Sherlock said calmly as John settled down full-length on his back.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Woman." Linking the fingers of their dominant hands together, Sherlock pressed a lingering kiss to his lover's hand. "She was no match for me, because she wasn't you."

John let out a self-deprecating huff and squeezed the detective's fingers, "Don't be daft, love. No one's a match for you."

Flipping them over with a sudden roll of his body, Sherlock pinned his partner to the bed, slotting their bodies together in that perfect way they always seemed to fit. Teasing John's mouth open with a few licks to his lips, Sherlock kissed him soundly. When they were both breathless, the detective pulled back a centimeter and stared down into John's sapphire-steel eyes.

"Don't be daft yourself, my dear John. You are a perfect match for me."


End file.
